


So Let's All Pretend

by Cocohorse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Jokes, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Mild Smut, Nicknames, Road Trips, Smoking, Teenlock, Unilock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 13:19:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2069733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cocohorse/pseuds/Cocohorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>THIS IS A RE-UPLOAD</p><p>"Though he hated the inhumanity of Moriarty at almost all times, there were a few, couple times Sherlock knew Moriarty just needed a little bit of humanity shown to him."</p><p>Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty, two young, intelligent, and successful men at the top of their businesses, run seemingly separate lives. But after a rough day at his side job, the consulting criminal arrives home to find himself being swept up by his detective boyfriend and put on a small trip to see the stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aithilin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/gifts).



> Hello! This is a gift to [Aithilin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin) for a Tumblr fanwork exchange, called [Exchangelock](http://exchangelock.tumblr.com). I do hope my giftee likes it. :) I enjoyed writing this, my first Sherlock fic, and I've gotten into shipping Sherlock and Moriarty as I worked on it, too!
> 
> Note: THIS IS A RE-UPLOAD. I had deleted this work from AO3 a while ago due to a personal matter, but at the interested requests of a few lovely people, I've decided to put this up again. I appreciate your guys' kindness, and extra thanks to [dynamics-of-an-asteroid](http://dynamics-of-an-asteroid.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr for the support!  
> I apologize to anyone who had bookmarked this or tried to search for this earlier, to find that it was missing. As well, apologies for the chock-ton of OOCness, plus any errors and mistakes in these two chapters. My most up-to-date version of this fic was here on AO3, its edits made directly on here after I first published it, but since I deleted it, I am left with an earlier copy with no additional edits that I may have made before.
> 
> Also, I am not sure if I will manage to put up the 3rd, and final, part of this fic due to a bunch of summer homework, and I will have little to no time when school comes back, unfortunately. :( I don't know when or even if I will finish this, but here's to hoping that I will! Thank you guys for reading, reviewing, and supporting this - it means so much!
> 
> Title and lyrics are after my personal Sherlock/Moriarty song, ["Le Velo Pour Deux"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oKiv0cy-Iyw) by The Brobecks.
> 
> PS. If you are Heather/Juliet/M A K A Y L A do not read this ok???? for the love of god thx

_Vampires never have to complain,_   
_Of living a dull circumstance._   
_So let's all pretend that we are undead,_   
_In turn of the century France._

* * *

They could read each other like an open book. Just a glance in just a second allowed both of them to spring up a whole synopsis about each other. It made playing simple games dull, but it made caring for each other a lot easier to manage. One little sign of unease in one of them was immediately a red flag for the other one. Though neither consulting criminal nor consulting detective was fairly good at displaying affection in general, they had their share of softer moments past all the yelling and snide comments and intrusions of personal space.

The consulting criminal had an especially awful day at work, running the little astronomy booth in the kid's museum a couple miles away from Sherlock's university. He worked under his alias, Richard Brook, and it was a little side job after he was kicked from uni for fooling around in his astronomy classes. His main job, though, was terrorizing the entirety of London and England itself as Jim Moriarty, but at the time, no one knew who he was, for all his underlings carried out all his plans for him. After a day of psychology classes, Sherlock would be trying to save the day from his hands, but the best thing about being secret boyfriends - or more likely, enemies-with-benefits - was that after all the torture and near-death situations, they knew that it was a game, an elaborate game to keep each other in demand in their businesses. Of course, being together meant that even though Moriarty still went full out whenever he attacked, not affected by their relationship, there was always a bit of guarantee that Sherlock would get whatever he wanted from him, even if it took a lot humiliating begging to his boyfriend, which Moriarty loved. And of course, with a little friendly manipulation, Moriarty could weasel some leeway from Sherlock whenever he needed it. It was just like a chess game, except they could practically guess all the moves. Moriarty always argued it gave a pretty healthy amount of action and drama in the lives of the citizens at stake, to which Sherlock would become infuriated about having lives at stake at all. Though he hated the inhumanity of Moriarty at almost all times, there were a few, couple times Sherlock knew Moriarty just needed a little bit of humanity shown to him.

Sherlock sat quietly in front of the television on the ground in just a thin light blue robe, fresh out of the shower. He didn't bother drying himself thoroughly; he just planted himself on the black and white carpet as the news ran on the screen. He was idly watching it, letting the news people drone on about robberies and rape, and he silently drowned himself in the noise. It was like a sort of white noise to him, and as the television hummed in the background, he walked barefoot around his boyfriend's large home, busying himself  in the meanwhile with making a small dinner during the uneventful, quiet night, absent of Moriarty's presence. Sherlock barely knew how to cook, so he threw together a plate of macaroni and cheese, as boringly ordinary it was. As the microwave buzzed on in the kitchen, he heard his cell phone vibrate from in the living room with the television. He crossed over, checked it, and saw a text that read:

 _ugh._   
_JM_

He frowned into the glowing screen of his phone. He quickly typed back:

 _What?_   
_SH_

The microwave beeped from back in the kitchen, and Sherlock went back, carrying his phone along. As he took out the hot plate with one hand, a bubble of steaming cheese popped and landed on his wrist. Hissing between his teeth, he did his best to ignore the pain, concentrating on his phone in his other hand. It made no further noises, and he received no further texts. He didn't let it bother him; Moriarty probably just needed some alone time away from work and Sherlock. Sherlock knew how draining balancing both a work mannerism and a relationship at the same time could be, and it was possible for clever people like them to struggle with it. He carried the plate back to the television with a spoon, and he sat himself, legs crossed, down in front of the television, the plate cradled in his lap. Silently, the phone right behind him in reaching distance on the coffee table, he ate and watched the television, waiting.

He perked up at the familiar sound of keys rattling. Listening quietly to a key fitting and turning into the lock, he placed his spoon down and took the plate of macaroni out of his lap and put it beside him on the carpet. Suddenly, he didn't know if being in his house was a good idea after all. Uneasy, his body tensed up, ready to meet whatever storm that was inside Moriarty.

The door opened. Sherlock started in recoil, but he kept still enough to watch Moriarty slip in. In a crisp black-on-black suit and his hair slicked back smoothly, he seemed just about as normal as a psychopath could be. But just one look gave Sherlock enough information. The weight in his shoulders seemed heavier than usual, and his dark eyes were more sunken, but not from lack of sleep. Instead of the regular victorious demeanor after a day full of scheming and ruining London, he didn't carry that in him. He wasn't shining a playful smirk, nor were his eyes sparkling with success. Those eyes, now lifeless, flickered around the room, then finally rested on Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock repeated softly.

Moriarty kicked off his shoes into a corner and walked towards him without a word, over to where he sat quietly on the carpet. He dropped down on his knees, allowing Sherlock to pull him gently into his lap. He felt the man, so small and frail in the arms that wrapped protectively around him, sink into the folds of the robe that fell like a waterfall from Sherlock's thin frame. Sherlock breathed slowly, saying nothing, his chest falling and rising, warmed by Moriarty pressing his smaller body against him. He knew he shouldn't say anything, and if he could give anything to him right now, it would be his faithful silence. He was more than willing to wait for him to open up whenever he wanted to, even if it meant hours. Sherlock rested his chin on top of his head, giving him a small, light kiss in the space where his black hair parted.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't reply, not wanting to coax him out unless he wanted to be. He closed his eyes.

"You... don't have to be here," Moriarty whispered into the robe that clung against his chest. "You don't have to do this."

"Then." Sherlock finally spoke, his eyes open now.  "I'll leave. I do have class tomorrow, and I should be back in my dorm, and - "

"Sh-shut up," Moriarty stammered, interrupting him, "I won't let you."

Sherlock felt himself crack a silent smile.

"You stupid detective. I'll kill you. Don't smile." But Sherlock felt him curl tighter against him, and his heartbeat relaxed. He breathed in the scent of Moriarty's expensive cologne and aftershave and mint gum, along with his fresh shampoo from after the shower.

Sherlock shifted a bit, turning Moriarty slightly around in his lap so he was facing him. Moriarty leaned forward, rocking in his lap, and kissed Sherlock on the lips. They held it for a second, their soft lips meeting with equal gentleness. They slowly broke off, and then Moriarty leaned back with a sharp, pained laugh. "I'm sorry. Daddy's just acting horrible because he's had a bad day," he mumbled.

"You need to relax. Let me fix your tie," Sherlock implored, pulling Moriarty closer to him.

"Greedy boy."

Sherlock reached up to his neck and tugged his black tie forward.

"Ooh," came Moriarty's light, implying tone with a flash of a slight grin as he was pulled forward by his tie.

"Goddamn, how did you tie this thing?" he spat. He pulled on the taut tie harder, eliciting a real laugh from his boyfriend.

"I can show you."

"Down, Jim," he exhaled, and finally the tie came apart, and it hung loosely from the consulting criminal's neck. Moriarty let out a low whine, but didn't say anymore on the subject.

"Okay." Sherlock nodded slowly, licking his lips. He cleared his throat and said, lifting his eyes to meet Moriarty's, "Tell me about your day."

"You already know, Mr. Detective."

"Yes," he smiled tightly, "But it's better hearing it from you."

In hesitation, Moriarty traced circles in Sherlock's palm. "I... I saw some astronomy students stop by my booth, and I tried - I tried to impress them with everything I know, but they were so, so much smarter than me. They were having so much fun talking about stars and stuff, while I was dealing with terrible kids. Wanted to shoot 'em, but I didn't have a gun on me."

"I'm glad you didn't. Then I would have had to come and save your arse." He watched Moriarty running his finger on his skin in thought. "You're smart," he admitted under his breath, "Clever, even. You know that, you pompous brat."

"I wished I tried in uni," Moriarty said, suddenly angry, his circles growing deeper in Sherlock's palm, "I would be graduating with you by the end of this year if I did." He stopped and stared forlornly up at Sherlock as if looking for help. "Now I try, but it's too late. It's not the same studying privately online without a proper professor and class where you can actually study real stars and comets - not gritty internet pictures - from real telescopes and things." His eyes casted downward. "I just have this crappy-ass, minimum-wage job and my computer."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. "You can get a scholarship," he attempted.

"No one would want me, Sherlock Holmes," he said weakly, crestfallen. "I mean, at least you still have your psych classes somehow."

"I'll probably get kicked out, too, before I even graduate." Flashing a half-hearted smile, Sherlock scratched his head. "How about I let your Norwegian spies go free in court this Monday? That'll cheer you up."

"You're too sweet, boy," was Moriarty's muffled answer as he nuzzled into the nape of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock inhaled sharply as his boyfriend trailed soft, little kisses down his neck. "When I first saw you at that museum, I was investigating there for any leads among the staff that may have connected to the art theft there; you remember."

"Yes, I remember." Moriarty drew away, his eyes keen. "I remember that you seemed more interested in me than the crime." He smiled wickedly.

"That's a lie," he muttered, earning a quick cuff over the ear. He ducked, shoving Moriarty so he nearly fell out of his lap. "But really," he continued when Moriarty simply clung back on to him, "You were intelligent and you knew practically everything there is in the universe about space and stars. You still do, and more. Good god, I don't know anything." As Moriarty listened intently, he slowly peeled off Moriarty's black coat with care, handling him gently as to not disturb him from his position too much. Then, he steadily ran his hand up and down the man's spine, taking time to rub him behind his shoulders and at the small of his back - the two places where Sherlock loved to touch and where Moriarty loved to be touched. "I'm not one to show his heart on his sleeve," he said finally in a quiet tone, after a silent moment of rubbing his back lightly, "but you should know that whatever you decide to do, whether it be pursuing that dream of yours to succeed in astronomy or to torch London to the ground, I know that you'll do your best, whether I'm supporting you or throwing you in jail."

"Damn you," Moriarty whispered hotly, barely masking his feelings with anger. His breath hitched when the rubbing at the small of his back crept downwards. "I h-hate you," he managed between shallow breaths, his teeth gritted together.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile cheekily to himself, and his hand returned back to its original place. He became silent, and it seemed something was on his mind.

Moriarty noticed it after a pause and asked, “What are you thinking?”

He blinked rapidly at the sound of his voice, as if returning. He looked down. "Do you want to play a game?" he asked.

"Good god, Holmes. You and your games." Relaxed, he rose a brow, and then in a mimicking voice, he sang, " _The game is on!_ " He snickered. "Oh, you poor, poor, stupid fool. I've got something better." Reaching at his own neck, Moriarty yanked his tie from the collar and lifted to it his mouth, and with a wink, he opened his mouth and bit down on the tie playfully. "Let's play, Sherlock," he growled through the tie, placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders.

"Dumb twat." Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed Moriarty off of him. Moriarty let go of the tie, falling onto the carpet. The taller man leaped up to his feet, barking, "Outside."

Moriarty's eyes glinted good-naturedly. "Woa-kay," he chuckled, and he rose his arms in the air like a child asking for help getting up. Sherlock reached out and swept him up from the carpet, pulling him up and close into a short kiss, where Moriarty had to step up on his toes to match his height. When they backed away, Moriarty lingered long enough to murmur a small "thank you." He ducked his face quickly to hide his reddening face, warm with embarrassment. Sherlock, knowing how much pride and dignity the man carried, returned the slightest hint of a nod without saying a thing.

Sherlock led him out into his backyard by one hand, and with his other hand, he flipped on a switch outside that ignited the outdoor fireplace. Moriarty followed him to a patch of cool grass beside the fireplace. "Wait here," the detective informed, remembering the suit his boyfriend had on. He left and promptly came back with a comforter from the guest bed in hand, and he spread it evenly over the grass. He patted the comforter. "Sit." Moriarty did so obediently, pulling off his wet socks and huddling closer to Sherlock as he sat down too.

"So what’s this game?" Moriarty asked. He sat with his legs up and his arms hugging them.

"It’s not really a game," he said simply, staring away at the dancing fire. “We just ask each other questions.”

“That’s it?” He shot Sherlock a look. “That’s kind of boooring and childish.”

Sherlock threw a small stick in the fire. “Come on.”

“Okay, okay.” Moriarty shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “You start.”

The detective stretched and leaned back so he laid on the comforter, his legs crossed over each other. The flickering light brightened the edges of his face. He paused in thought, and then he asked, “What’s your favorite color?”

“Really - you…” he trailed off, and thinking better of it , he replied, “Gray.”

“Mm.” Sherlock put his arms behind his head. “I would have guessed white or black, but you know.”

He cracked a smile. “I would say something utterly stupid and philosophical that would make me sound like a pretentious shit, but yeah, I know.”

“ _Like_ a pretentious shit? You _are_ a pretentious shit.” Sherlock gave a laugh, his breath wisps in the cold night air.

Moriarty quickly glared at him from over his shoulder. “You’re one to talk, Sherlock Holmes,” he shot back, his voice rough and low and his eyes narrowing in the dark. But a smile crept on his lips, and he burst out with a laugh when Sherlock snatched his arm and pulled him down on to the comforter beside him.

“Takes one to know one,” Sherlock said, playing nonchalance. They were both laying side by side on the comforter, the grass encircling around them and the fireplace at their feet. Moriarty gave him a big, swift kiss on the mouth and smirked at Sherlock's disgusted face when he withdrew. “You are so gross,” Sherlock groaned in complaint.

“Says the sloppy boy wearing nothing but a fifteen-dollar, cotton robe.” Moriarty lifted the bottom of his own dress shirt, revealing a sliver of a tag in the inside. “Armani,” he whistled with a grin.

“Materialistic,” Sherlock sniffed. He placed his hands on his thighs, looking back at him. “So…”

Moriarty’s eyebrows rose in question and then he quickly nodded. “Oh yeah, the game, the game.” He let out a loud sigh, his eyes flickering up to the overhead sky. His eyes moved back and forth for a moment before he finally said, “Uh, uh… Favorite food?”

“Cornbread,” he replied in a heartbeat.

He gave a disbelieving look. “Seriously, Holmes? Cornbread?” he queried, squinting at him. He shook his head slowly, staring at the detective like he had never seen him before. “God, Jesus. I can’t believe I’m dating someone from, like, the sewers. You’re so freaking domestic, it makes me want to kill myself and then you.”

Sherlock smoothed down the wrinkles in his robe, busying himself quietly. “My mum used to make cornbread when I was younger for special occasions,” he said. “They were - they were delicious.” His breathing slowed. “I wish she still made them, but that was just for when I was a kid. No more parties anymore.”

“Crabcakes,” Moriarty put in suddenly in a louder voice. “Love ‘em. I can literally eat them without getting sick for, like, a month.” He closed his eyes tightly. “God, I haven’t had them in two months. I need some right now. There’s a good, old restaurant I haven’t been to in forever that you need to try out; it’s down at -” His running mouth was quickly and unexpectedly stopped when the man with the black curls crashed his lips against them. Moriarty, his eyes flying open, gave a surprised, delighted hiss in his mouth, arching backward as Sherlock pressed up towards him.

Sherlock finally let go. His eyes were shadowed. “Be quiet,” he said lowly, his voice a dark, heated rumble. “I can’t think.”

Moriarty stared back at him without blinking. “Yes, sir,” he whispered, his voice ragged and distant.

The detective stood up abruptly, leaving Moriarty staring blankly - and slightly aroused - behind. Sherlock started walking speedily towards the house before realizing the emptiness behind him. He turned around in one quick motion, saying sharply, “Come on, Jim, hurry up!”

“What’s going on?” Moriarty scrambled to his feet and bounded over to him, leaving everything behind. “I’d love to go to the crabcake place, but we don’t have to if you don’t want to. I know you don’t like seafood.”

“No, idiot, we’re going somewhere else.” They were both inside now, and Sherlock stopped in front of a pile of his clothes, the ones that he wore to his house. He stripped off his thin robe and tossed it over the couch, and he pulled on his normal clothes. After he got his pants and shirt and jacket on, he started turning his head around back and forth, looking for something. “Jim...” he called, his eyes raking everywhere, “Have you seen my - my…”

“Got it,” Moriarty said from behind him. Sherlock felt his scarf drape over his shoulders and around his neck, and then he felt himself behind spun around. There was a tightening at his neck as Moriarty tied the scarf together, and then the man stepped back and smiled. “There.”

The consulting criminal shrugged on his jacket, and at the same time, he shot a glance at Sherlock, who was picking up his shoes from the ground. “So are you going to tell me where we’re going?” he asked, staring at him.

Sherlock sat down on the couch for a second, putting them on and then hopping around to fit his feet in. He  mumbled to himself until he finally wiggled them on. “I just set up that question game so I could have a little time to think. I was thinking about what you’d said earlier; how you want to go see the stars.” He stopped fiddling with his shoes, and he looked up at Moriarty. “We’re gonna - no, I’m going to take you to see those stars, and there will be no shitty internet pictures involved. We’ll go out tonight, where no city lights can reach us and the sky, so you’ll see your stars, and I’ll be there with you.” He ran his hand through his mussed hair, and he glanced down at his feet. “Now, I know that you don’t like surprises - ironically - so we don’t have to do this, and I do have classes tomorrow, and I should be back in my dorm, but… It’ll be fun. I think so, anyways.” He paused, and then looked back up and questioned, “Are you listening, Jim?”

Moriarty was standing still in his spot, his gaze frozen on him. “I - no, I mean, yes,” he spluttered, his words coming fast and jumbled up. “Just shush, baby, I’m - I’m happy right now, and we’re gonna do this, and those classes are ridiculous.” He was shaking, and his eyes were lighting up and shining. “Come on, let’s go now, Sherlock. You and me. Let’s go right now.”

The outside night air was brilliant and chilly, and stars illuminated the inky sky. The pair both ran out of the large house and out into the front yard. The place was imprisoned within a wall of hedges that hid it perfectly from any straying eyes. The house itself was purposely built and painted to match the scenery around it, blending into the safe, dark enclosure of the forest that acted as a ring around an even larger, isolated grass field. As the night flew on, the moon lifted higher into the sky, but it was nearly blocked by the tall trees that surrounded the house. Little patches of moonlight filtered down delicately onto the grounds of the place, so it made an irregular pattern of shadows and light that seemed to move and dance as the moon glided across the sky. The two men’s feet moved quickly through the forest, the taller one breaking through the shrubbery and the smaller one following right behind him. They were both as silent as possible, but their footsteps crashed against the forest floor, leaves cracking underneath them, and their breaths came hard and loud and excited. Only the dense cover of the trees softened and masked their noises.

When they finally broke free to the other side, they both stopped and panted. Moriarty bent down and rested his palms on his knees, shaking his head side to side. “Now… Now what…?” he gasped breathlessly, but despite his tiring image, his eyes glowed with eagerness and drive and he focused them up on Sherlock.

He was standing away from him and gazing over the rolling, dark hills. Taking an uncertain step forward towards the hills, Sherlock sighed to himself. “No… I can’t do this, Jim. I didn’t think this through. I should’ve asked more questions. It’s too far and crazy.”

“What?” Moriarty appeared surprised at his change of attitude and a little angry. “No, mister. Nothing’s too far or crazy.” He propped himself back up and moved towards Sherlock and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him close. “Come on, we have to act now or lose our momentum,” he snapped, his Irish voice growing faster, “You already are. We’re dumb and stupid, but we have to do this.”

“... Jim. Let’s be realistic.” Sherlock roughly shook his arm free of his grasp.

“Oh.” Moriarty’s eyes narrowed. “ _Oh._ ” He stepped back, and reached into his pocket. His voice was suddenly light, but it was tinged dangerously. “I didn’t plan on doing this,” he growled, pulling out a gun he always carried around on him. “Go, Holmes, or I shoot.”

“ _How romantic,_ ” Sherlock sneered, but he turned around and eyed the gleaming gun in his hand. “What are you doing?” he laughed bitterly, his eyes straying briefly from the gun to Moriarty’s face, “Holding me at gunpoint so I can carry you along to somewhere stupid?”

“It’s - it’s,” Moriarty started, and then he coughed. He clicked and loaded his gun, steadying himself. He set his jaw straight. “That’s exactly what I’m doing, you lazy, bipolar dick.”

Sherlock, for once, decided on the better of two options at the moment, and he gave a playful, apologetic smile. “Okay, well, we need a car,” he said lightly, almost sarcastically, “And not a taxi, mind.”

“I can’t believe we don’t even own cars,” Moriarty spat, lowering his gun and slipping back inside his coat. “Wasted so much money on college for nothing.” In exchange, he swiped out a pair of keys. “Keys not to a car,” he mused, “But to my dad’s house. Just do a little break in and find his car keys, and then we can go.” He tossed it back from hand to hand. “It’s a short… -ish walk from here. 16 kilometers.”

The detective whipped his head to the side, his eyebrows rising in shock. “No. No. Now I really don’t want to go,” he said flatly.

“He has a Jaguar XJ,” Moriarty murmured cooly.

“No,” Sherlock breathed, “No. Shit. What the hell.” He reached up and rubbed his temple slowly. “Okay,” he sighed, defeated, “let’s go.” He waved towards the small trail back to the city, moving towards the twinkling lights in the distance.

He only reached a few yards before he heard the consulting criminal’s high-pitched laughter behind him. Sherlock turned around to meet his apparent glee, his forehead furrowed with suspicion.

Moriarty’s eyes were lit up with amusement, and his laughing breaths came out as puffs of cold air. “You sweet, stupid boy,” he said, a crooked smile on his sharp face. “I have a _motorcycle_ back. You don’t have to walk the 16 kilometers, we can just take, like, a short 45 minutes there.” He walked up to his stunned and upset and ashamed boyfriend, giving him a loud slap. “I can’t believe you were willing to walk that far just for a car.” He rose himself up and gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek. “Wait right here, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Sherlock said nothing in reply, and his mixed emotions radiated off him visibly as he stood there in silence, bearing the man’s teasing. He watched him dash off to retrieve the motorcycle, and when he finally disappeared back into the forest, Sherlock, chagrin, exhaled and reached into his pants pocket. He fingered around the pocket for a bit, and then he drew out a cigarette and a lighter. He lit it and placed it to his lips and inhaled quietly, shutting his eyes.

Only a few seconds had felt like passed when he was thrown back into his senses by the loud roar of an incoming engine. His eyes jerked open by a loud shout from the rider of the bike, and he coughed out a cloud of smoke in retaliation. After shutting the engine off, Moriarty leaped off the bike and landed on the ground, throwing a small billow of dust up in the air. He lifted his helmet off to yell loudly, “What did I say _before?!_ ” He stomped up to Sherlock, who was blinking and still coming back, and he roughly snatched the burning cigarette from between the detective's lips, tossing it to the ground and snuffing it out under the heel of his shoe. Moriarty faced him and hissed, “I don’t want to see you putting that filthy trash in your mouth, _Sherlock!_ ”

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled under his breath, pushing past him and towards the motorcycle. He nodded slowly in approval at the machine and took the other helmet.

Moriarty gave a low huff, which for once, ever since they started, sounded exhausted. “Okay,” he said, strapping his helmet back on as Sherlock did so, too, “Do you want to drive?”

“Sure,” he replied solemnly, draping a leg over the front of the motorcycle, placing his palms on the handles of the motorcycle. It was an older model, but it still appeared to be in a fine state. “Does this have enough gas?” he asked, his voice stilted.

“Yeah.”

Moriarty’s voice and movements were rigged, and it made the detective flush up, but his helmet shadowed his face. But when the smaller man got onto the motorcycle behind him, Sherlock could feel him sliding noiselessly and smoothly against him.

His chest clenched, and a shame swirled in the pit of his stomach. “I’m sorry, truly,” whispered Sherlock nearly inaudibly, feeling Moriarty’s soft breath at his own ear.

A sharp sigh fell behind him. “I know,” Moriarty mumbled at last into the sleepy night. “That’s why I don’t hate you.” He drew his arms out and wrapped them around Sherlock’s waist. “Now, drive and let’s go.” Quietly, he leaned closer and rested his head on his shoulder, moving it against close against Sherlock’s own head.

“There better be the Jaguar there,” Sherlock said in response, easing into the seat. His shoulders relaxed slightly.

Moriarty grinned. “I didn’t know you were a car fanatic. Really, I’m surprised, and _a bit disappointed._ ”

“How I’d love to be in that piece of machinery right now. What I’d want to do with it.” He whistled.

There was a pause. “ _Oh._ ”

“I meant, like, taking it places, and, just -- _No._ No, Jim.” He flipped on the motorcycle, and the engine gave a few spurts before thundering to life.

“Well, we’ll see what happens.”

They were both smiling now. The stars in the skies shone, reflecting off their helmets. The motorcycle, loud and blasting, jumped forward with a few quick flicks, and it sped away with a roar down the trail towards the city, leaving a cloud of dust that, after a few moments, settled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ((@irl friends: DOn't YOU DARE READ THIS HEATHER/JULIET/M A K A Y L A BC I WILL BE TOO HUMILIATED AND I WILL KILL YOU OKAY PLEASE IF U THINK ME AS YOUR FRIENd YOU WILL NOT READ THIS OKAY PLEASE DONT MAKE ME DELETE THIS OK THANK YOU :((())

_I want the love on your wrist,_  
_Oh, give me the heart on your neck._  
_And it would be fine,_  
_To spend my whole life,_  
_With you, together._  
_Parlez vous, or something like that._  
_Le velo pour deux, or something like that,_  
_And that's what I'll say to get you to ride away with me._

* * *

“Dear lord.”

“Damn nice, yeah?” He planted his hands on his hips, a proud smile tugging on the end of his lips. “Dad got it a couple months ago. I’d say, well worth the flipping price.”

His fingers ran over the smooth, cold handle of the door, and his hot breath fogged up the window as he pressed against the cold glass of the window. The detective peered through the driver’s window, scanning the interior with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.

The other man rolled his eyes, and growled, “Shit, Sherlock, you don’t even look at me like that.”

Before Sherlock could respond, a sudden pounding of footsteps over their heads stopped them in their chatter.

Moriarty froze in terror. “Oh, Christ, he’s up!” he whispered loudly through his teeth, and all at once, he fumbled at his sides for the keys. He yanked them out and threw it over the car to Sherlock’s open hands. “Get in and turn it on, and I’ll open the garage!”

Sherlock caught the keys with ease and quickly inserted in the door’s lock, turning it open. He popped into the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition, and pulled it into reverse. Right behind him and the car was Moriarty struggling to throw the heavy garage door open. “Come back!” Sherlock cried softly out an open window in the car, “There’s a remote for the garage in here!” He had spotted a remote clipped on the driver’s shield.

“Jesus,” snarled Moriarty as he abandoned his post and slid in the passenger’s seat right beside him.

The garage door let out a metallic groan as it opened. The wheels of the car skidded and squealed across the ground as the car reversed and backed out before the door could open completely. It swerved out the driveway and into the street, and then Sherlock hit forward, causing the wheels to change direction. The car jerked forward, but after the initial panic was over, Sherlock reined it in and it fell back and drove down the street smoothly.

Moriarty was the first one to laugh. “So we’re really doing this?” he said gleefully, clapping his hands together.

“What does it look like we’re doing?” replied Sherlock, his flat tone sarcastic, yet he showed a satisfaction that no one else could match.

After they were moving past the edge of the city, past all the brilliant lights of the towers and cars, Moriarty reclined back in the passenger’s seat, laying his head back against the read. He turned his head to the right towards Sherlock, tilting his head slightly upwards so he could examine his face. Flickering overhead lights brightened his face briefly as the car drove on. Moriarty blinked sleepily, his eyes fluttering.

“You know,” the consulting criminal said at last, through half-closed eyes, “This is kind of like a road trip, isn’t it, Sherlock?” A pleased smile danced on his eager face, and he hugged his coat closer as the cold air flowed through the car’s vents. It smelled brisk and crispy, tinted with the new, expensive car smell; it was refreshing. He paused and studied Sherlock’s expression as a response back, and he shook his head. “You’re disgustingly romantic,” he drawled, his voice hovering from his lips.

Sherlock turned the wheel at a stoplight, shifting one hand over another. “What about your motorcycle?” he asked, frowning as they changed direction, “We just left it there on the street… ”

“I don’t know.”

Sherlock shot a brief side glance at him, and the detective removed and extended his left hand, giving his hair a quick ruffle. There was a tiny mew of frustration and indignation as Moriarty tried to smooth down his hair. Sherlock rolled his eyes, focusing his gaze back on the road ahead. He sighed, his tone warm and tired, “Go to sleep. It’s gonna be a long ride.”

Moriarty kept his eyes open despite his order and wearily fixed on Sherlock until the car moved onto the highway. There, it fell back into a constant rumble.

* * *

Sometimes Sherlock had to mentally remind himself why he was still there, still sticking around, still dealing with the emotional and moral struggles that came with throwing himself into the risky relationship. He simply loved him, of course, that was understandable. Even if he was an arrogant, egotistical, emotionless prick - just like Sherlock was - there was some sort of fascinating, attracting pull that always made Sherlock gravitate towards him. They were no good for each other, but they still pursued each other like a drug, a drug he could never get off. Both were all each other had. Moriarty was only other person in the god-forsaken world that understood him, and it seemed true for him, too. The moment they realized that and what it meant for each other was when they were both hopelessly addicted. The consulting criminal and consulting detective were horribly, terribly drawn and dragged to each other. Whatever would come out of it, they both knew, was something more and more unfathomable as the relationship continued.

But the odd, crazy thing was that at this very moment, Sherlock didn’t care, and he knew that Moriarty didn’t either. They were just two, stupid kids with some stupid life drawn in front of them that they couldn’t read. They were going to intertwine several more times after this, and at some point, they would break.

As the sun was peeking through the trees, and the skies began to brighten with rosy colors, Sherlock snuck a glance at the man sleeping quietly beside him. His eyelids were lowered, his eyelashes shadowing the circles underneath his eyes. His mouth hung slightly open, and a steady stream of air moved in and out with every breath. While his face was always so sharp and bitter, in small moments like this that Sherlock caught, he appeared almost normal. His edges softened, and his tight mask, always plastered across his face, seemed to clear for a second. He was just James Moriarty, an intolerable, infuriating, aggravating Irish man who was smart and bright and not that bad at all. He was his Jim. His consulting criminal.

Sherlock wouldn’t care at all to be broken by him.

A muffled yawn rose from the smaller man. He stirred awake as the rising sun brightened and warmed his face. His face was flushed pink and red, different from his usual pale complexion. Opening his groggy eyes, he murmured, “Good morning, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock continued driving. “Morning,” he replied. He casted a sideways look at him. “Are you hungry?”

“Somewhat. Are we almost there?” he inquired, stretching his loose arms and back as he straightened himself in the passenger seat.

“Almost,” Sherlock informed, using one hand to rub his eyes. “We can stop for some snacks at a gas station or something,” he commented through his hand as it drifted back to the steering wheel, “And besides, I think we need more gas. There’s one a few miles up from here.”

“Okay, okay, yeah,” he agreed with a nod, and then he fell back in silence. He turned away and faced his window, looking out and watching the green pass by in a blur. Tall, dark pine trees with an array of green needles lined the highway on both sides, and it was a forest so dense that the other side couldn’t be seen. The wind coming from the hills and mountains in front of them were cold and a reminder of the approaching winter, but the frail, warm sunlight strengthened over the tops of the trees. His fingers drummed on the armrest, seemingly in thought. His reflection shone in the mirror, and a small smile could be seen. He suddenly let out a chuckle that spurred Sherlock into shooting another quick look at him. “You’re totally okay with this?” He was frowning at the sun through his slitted eyes as he spoke as if it was sort of unnatural thing that bothered him immensely, and he popped out a pair of shades and wore them on.

“Yeah.” He flashed a tired, fond smile at the man with the sunglasses, secretly amused by his theatrics, and his hands loosened on the wheel. “It’s something new.”

Moriarty turned away from the mirror and looked at Sherlock up and down through his glasses, his eyes nearly indiscernible. “You’re exhausted; I’ll drive the rest of the way to the gas station,” he attempted, his face crinkling with concern.

“No, we’re almost there,” Sherlock replied in rebuffal, waving him off as he drove. “I’m fine, I can catch a quick nap at the station while we’re there.”

The car came to the exit and drove through on to the streets. They arrived at the old, small gas station by the time the bright sun was steadily rising in the sky. The station had two or three other cars littered around in front, and there was a little material store that a passersby could stop at and buy a drink or a snack or a pack. There were just a few, barely any, people getting gas or going on or out of the store. Faded, once-colorful posters shouting cheap sales and deals and past local events lined the walls of the shop. It wasn’t too out of date, really; there was a clean ATM and soda pop machine sitting out beside the door, but they seemed almost out of place.

Sherlock swerved the car around, its wheels crunching on gravel, and he parked it by one of the few gas machines. Unbuckling his seat beat, he got had his hand on the handle, but stopped himself. He felt his pockets, and then he nearly paled in embarrassment as he asked Moriarty, “Did you bring any money with you?”

“Always,” loftily sighed Moriarty, who then reached his arm into his coat pocket and took out a couple of crispy bills. Sherlock took the handed money over and before he stuffed into his pocket, he fanned them out and counted. A second later, he drew from his hand a gave back a bill. Moriarty received it questionably, but realization set in when Sherlock suggested, “Go buy yourself something to eat or drink.”

“Do you want anything, Sherly?” he trilled in the most honeyed voice as he unlocked the door and propped out, suit and shades and all. The both of them and the fancy car appeared like an abnormality at the gas station. They were fit - or really only just Moriarty - for a black-tie gala hosted by a CEO billionaire, not an early-morning, spur-of-the-moment trip to a shabby, old gas station miles and miles from home. But Moriarty didn’t seem to notice or care in the slightest bit, and he brushed off any of the outside falling dust that clung to him, and he gave a few, quick combs of his hair with a delicate hand.

Sherlock contemplated it over for a split-second. “Maybe get me one of those beef jerky sticks,” he remarked, scratching the back of his neck as he leaned back into his seat, covering his eyes with his hand.

Moriarty waved a bill at him. “Of course, I’ll get you some right now,” he declared.

“And don’t buy any alcohol!” Sherlock called out after him, looking out and swiftly catching his gaze with a raised brow.

“So very thoughtful of you, love,” purred the consulting criminal, blowing an exaggerated kiss at the sourpussed detective as he strutted away. With a little, nearly unnoticeable to anyone - but obviously not Sherlock - swagger, he strode down to the little store as if it was a stretch of red carpet.

“Mad bastard,” Sherlock jeered after him in a lowered voice out the window, his eyes narrowing condescendingly.

Moriarty somehow heard him, and he whipped around with a pivot of his feet, a sleek smirk and a playful glare on his face aimed at the detective. Pausing in his tracks, he gave a tiny, brash wiggle of his bottom, and then he continued on into the store with a skip in his step and with the knowledge of Sherlock staring right behind him.

When he finally finished shopping, he strolled to the front of the store where the cashier was and placed his armload of goods on the counter.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” the cashier commented offhandedly as he scanned the items one at a time, keeping his eyes on the register, “What’s a kid like you doing out now and here in your whole fancy get up?”

Moriarty, his hands stuffed in his pockets, just gave a short chuckle under his breath, and he set down a couple of bills to pay. He had bought a pack of gum, a large blue slushie with two straws, two beef sticks, and a bag of Funyuns. “I don’t really know,” he said at last, looking over his sunglasses and watching the man type out things in the cashier and finish up. There was no one else in the shop at the moment. The only sound was a distant, whirring, overhead fan.

“Nice suit and ride, though,” whistled the cashier, handing the change and receipt into Moriarty’s open palm.

“Yeah.”

“Bag?”

“No.” He gave a nod, about to take the items when the cashier suddenly leaned forward to him.

“Better watch out, though,” he advised, “Rich, nice kid like you might get messed around with - you know.”

Moriarty grinned. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “But I don’t think any sound idiot would dare to.”

He stuck the pack of gum and a straw inside his coat pocket, cradled the large Funyuns bag in one arm, held the two beef sticks in that hand, and clutched the slushie in his other hand. He marched out, pushing his way through the closed door with the side of his shoulder, and he stumbled out into the front parking lot of the gas station. The bell on top of the door jingled with his departure. The full-armed man made his way over to the car, weaving past a person and balancing the items carefully on his person.

Sherlock was leaning his back against the gas machine, the pump and hose connected and filling the car with gas. While waiting for Moriarty, he was humming something and glancing at his reflection on the car’s shiny exterior. His face, tired and worn, was deep in thought, and his usually-bouncy curls flattened and glistening with sweat. He had taken off his scarf to air out and let his neck breath, and he had on a loose, linen, buttoned blue shirt under his jacket. But at the sound of pacing footsteps and a slurping noise, he looked up from the car.

“Not as bad as alcohol,” spoke Sherlock, stepping up to Moriarty, who was content with noisily drinking from his slushie through a neon straw, “But still pretty bad.” He pulled Moriarty close by his lapels, and the criminal drank and watched amusingly at Sherlock as the detective reached in and fished out the extra straw from his pocket. “Give it to me,” Sherlock ordered lightly, taking the slushie out of his grasp and inserting the straw inside it.

As Sherlock took his turn and drank from the slushie, the gas finished pumping, so Moriarty went over to the other side of the car. He took out the nozzle of the hose and placed it back on the machine, shutting the cover of the gas tank closed. After Sherlock had his fill, he handed the large cup back to him and took one of the beef sticks eagerly, peeling off the plastic and starting to eat it. The both of them went back inside the car, and before Sherlock could finish his beef stick, he turned on the car and drove them a little away from the gas machine, into one of the couple of parking spaces right beside the store. It was shaded by trees and nearly hidden from view from the front, and they could continue eating in peace.

They both finished one beef stick each in silence, the only noise were the motors of a few cars around them and the crinkling of the plastic wrapper over the beef. The blue slushie drink was mostly gone, save for two inches of quickly-melting shaved ice pooling at the bottom. The bag of Funyuns was stashed away under the passenger seat for later.

“Your breath smells like spicy meat,” said Moriarty finally, after he had finished and was resting his tired head back on the head cushion.

“Obviously.”

The AC was running quietly in the background to cool them. He closed his eyes briefly. “Take the gum from my pocket and put a stick in my mouth, will you? You should take one too, dog breath.” He felt Sherlock pause beside him, and then in the next moment, he felt long, thin fingers glide into his coat pocket, searching for the pack. A second later, the gum was out and the rip of paper and plastic was heard. Sticking his tongue out, eyes still shut closed, he felt the slight pressure of the gum being placed in his mouth.

“You’re a sweetie,” he murmured to Sherlock, chewing down the gum and shooting a smirk at him. Suddenly, he couldn’t help but randomly burp out loud, igniting a genuine laugh from Sherlock and an embarrassed blush on himself.

“C’mere, Jim,” Sherlock said in good humor, leaning over the armrest to meet Moriarty’s ready mouth in the middle. Their lips collided hard and awkwardly, for Moriarty was in the middle of chewing his minty gum, but the consulting criminal stopped enough to let the detective ease up and guide him, kissing him back gentler. The taste of the mint was sharp and refreshing, sending sparks of electricity shooting down both of their spines. They fell into a rhythm of movement between their lips, and it was exciting. Soon enough, Moriarty was tearing off his hot, outer coat with struggling, lean arms, throwing it behind him into the back of the car. Sherlock pressed closer to him and backed him up against the passenger door, his fingers and palms starting to sweat and become frisky and agitated.

Moriarty unexpectedly broke off and withdrew, his forehead pressed against Sherlock’s. His shoulders were shaking. “We’re not gonna do this here, are we?” he gasped with a shiver, suddenly conscious about himself and Sherlock and outside. Their hot breaths were coming hard now against each other in the thick air, and Sherlock, almost reluctantly, shook his head in reply.

“No,” he rasped, ducking his head down and moving away to avoid Moriarty’s gaze, regret and guilt building in his voice. His bright blue eyes dulled and lowered. “I didn’t want to lead you on too much; I just wanted to kiss you a bit more… Make out, I don’t know. But not that far.”

“Don’t apologize, Sherlock. Whenever you’re ready, always,” Moriarty said quietly. His hair was frayed and wild, but his unsettled eyes were dimmed with apprehension. The two of them had always come close to having actual sex, but it never happened because Sherlock was just not ready. Moriarty, for all his crimes against humanity, respected that wish and never made him go farther than what he was comfortable with, which was to shortstop. His nervous hands were immediately busy at his suit, smoothing down the wrinkles.

Sherlock quietly nodded in reply, thankful. “Well, I’m going to catch a nap,” he said at last, with nothing else to say, and his voice ringing with finality. “Might be a few hours, I don’t know. Do you mind? I’m sorry this trip is so slow, but I’m honestly exhausted,” he sighed apologetically, “You can work on things in the meantime, maybe stir up a bank heist down the street.”

“No, I don’t mind at all. Bank heists can wait, though.” He fiddled his fingers aimlessly as he spoke again, his eyes travelling downwards, away from Sherlock’s gaze. “If it’s okay with you,” he ran on, hopeful, “I’d much rather sleep with you.”

Sherlock hesitated as the consulting criminal, so hungry and needy for affection, glanced up at him with a pleading expression of pure, genuine worry and forgiveness. His pupils, usually black and empty and void, yet filled with manic desires, now were brimming and shining with emotion. The detective straightened and tightened his jaw, and then released it. “Yeah, of course, Jim,” he murmured at last, with a knowing sigh and a hint of a soft smile.

Too tired to wrangle out of his clothes, Sherlock attempted to climb from the driver’s seat into the back, followed suit by Moriarty. Sherlock, tuckered out, ungracefully fell into the back seat, landing awkwardly on the side of his hip, and Moriarty, with a laugh, plopped down beside him, bouncing on the leather cushioning.

As Sherlock readjusted himself in the seat, Moriarty played with his hair. “Oh, baby, you’re so dumb and you always make a fuss,” he sang in a fluttery voice, twisting a curl around his finger, “Just go to sleep, my Sherlock Holmes.”

The detective batted his hands away from his hair. “I’m not _your_ Sherlock, and especially _not_ a baby,” he growled, trying to get into the best sleeping position as Moriarty fidgeted around annoyingly. “Goddamn,” he cursed, exasperated, as the consulting criminal wiggled lovingly into his lap, “Spoon or side-by-side?” His eyes narrowed with irritation, but he bit back a grin. “I swear to god, Jim, if you start rutting…”

“I’ll be the big spoon,” Moriarty whispered in attempt, slowly grinding against him. “And yeah, you are.”

“Not a chance, you whore,” Sherlock muttered lowly, his lips hovering over his ear.

“I love it when you give me such endearing names, baby,” sighed Moriarty, his voice a combination of a purr and a hum. He rested the back of his head against Sherlock’s collarbone, and his fingers wormed and intertwined into the other man’s own, keeping him steady as he continued to gently rub against Sherlock’s crotch. “I love it when you let me tease you, brave boy.”

“Do you really?”

“Come on,” Moriarty whined, “I simply don’t like it when you get to be it.”

“ _Learn to,_ ” Sherlock growled. He brought their entwined hands to his face and pressed a kiss against the back of Moriarty’s hand.

The consulting detective gave a teasing thrust of his hips, reciprocating Moriarty’s increasingly fervent rutting. And with his other hand, he ran it down the criminal’s chest at the same time they grinded together, the fabric of the shorter man’s buttoned shirt smooth against his touch. A hot tremor coursed through Moriarty’s body under the detective's fingers, and Sherlock felt the man stop rearing against him to let out a heated, ungovernable gasp. Sherlock, caught off-guard, stopped his hand over the top of his belt. But with Moriarty trembling between his arms, he quizzically continued his hand over the base of his pants.

Moriarty grew red and his cheeks flamed with shame as if he was caught in the act of something terrible. The thin layer between Sherlock’s hand and his body stung him, making him wince. “Sherlock, I’m sorry,” Moriarty breathed sharply, almost rueful, and he shook under his hand. “Just - just give daddy two minutes alone to get rid of this, I’m sorry, I - I can’t do this right now.”

“If you want me to -” Sherlock uttered.

“- God, no, no,” Moriarty shot back, close to a mixture of anger and humiliation at himself. He let go of Sherlock’s hand to wipe at his eyes, not bearing to turn and face him. “I’m so sorry, I’d never… I’d never…”

“Jim, are you crying?”

“Shit, I don’t know. I don’t know why; it’s not like me…” He let out a choked, pained laugh, blinking back bright, watering tears. “I _hate_ doing this to you.”

“You are as important to me as I am to you.”

“No… No, I’m not…” he croaked.

He dropped a murmur. “Where did you ever get the idea?” Sherlock rubbed his fingers up and down Moriarty’s tightening pants, the fabric flush with sweat against his skin. “Just answer me honestly.” He could see the frenzied, wild look in the criminal’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror. Sherlock stopped him from moving away, and his tone of voice was hushed and quiet and still. “Would you like me to take care of you?” he whispered.

“You - you don’t know wh -- oh, _Jesus Ch-Christ!_ ” Moriarty gasped between his teeth, twisting in Sherlock’s lap, fingers digging and clawing helplessly into the seat.

Sherlock had locked him between his arms, his rough, large hands working up and down across the base of  Moriarty’s pants where there was a growing hard-on. His voice came into his ear, quick and hot. “ _Would you like me to take care of you?_ ”

Moriarty practically melted at the words that dripped from his mouth. He nodded quickly and frantically, his teeth biting hard down on his bottom lip to cut back a moan. “Oh, please, please,” he choked out as a searing fire burned inside him, “Baby, please, I n-need you.”

He moved swiftly and silently, jumping readily to his pleas. “Don’t call me that,” Sherlock muttered, unbuckling Moriarty’s belt with one dexterous hand as the other one worked itself on the bulge of his pants.

“S-sorry, sir. P-please.” And with another gasp, he squirmed in the detective’s lap when he slipped his hand in, a reward for the new title. Moriarty arched his back, burying a heated moan into the sleeves of Sherlock’s arms that snaked and wrapped around him.

“Quiet, quiet,” grunted Sherlock, fixing his hands inside.

An almost silence followed, only broken by the scufflings that came from Moriarty, along with two or three alternative versions of _please, sir_ that escaped his mouth. Sherlock was more or less quiet, his hands working in Moriarty’s pants, his crotch grinding against the smaller man. Both of their pants rubbed together, creating awkward, rough, dry noises accompanied by both of their panting. After a while of this, Moriarty, with a shudder, finally gasped and spilled into his hands, and Sherlock quickly finished him off with a burning kiss on the top of his head and a few reassuring, gentle pats on his legs. _Good, good, Jim,_ were his loving whispers through his hair. Tiredly, breathlessly, Moriarty pressed against him and nested in his steady arms, tilting his head up and lapping up the kisses that Sherlock gave him at the end for being done. Sherlock’s hair was tousled and shining with sweat, and Moriarty’s pants were unzipped wide open, his belt lost among their entangled feet on the floor of the car. The detective pulled his hands out from Moriarty’s underwear, the elastic band snapping after him. Their heaving chests rose and fell together in time with their aftershocks, gradually slowing down.

“That… That was good, yeah,” Sherlock breathed. His arms were still wrapped around the smaller man.

“Yeah,” Moriarty panted, tilting his head upwards to kiss him, “Err, thanks. Thanks, baby.”

Sherlock kissed him back. “Don’t start with that again,” he sighed into his mouth, his eyelids drooping.

“You don’t have to hide anything from me. It doesn’t work.” Moriarty leaned back, resting. He grinned. “You secretly like it. Cute.”

“I don’t.” Indignation crept into his voice.

Moriarty only continued to smile as Sherlock took off his coat and turned over in the seat, laying down on his side. The detective, now only in his pants and light blue shirt, with the rest of his clothes - his socks, shoes, and coat - strewn on the floor, beckoned the consulting criminal closer. Moriarty let himself be pulled down on his back in the seat, and he moved himself on to his side so they were both facing one another. As Moriarty played quietly with the buttons on the larger man’s shirt, Sherlock scooted closer to him by bringing his arms around his hips and bringing them together until they were pressed against each other. Sherlock blinked in mild interest, watching Moriarty’s focused hands and flickering gaze on the buttons of his shirt, and with a last sigh, the detective shut his eyes and let himself drift into sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea when or if Part Three will ever be up, but if I have enough feedback, I will try to get to work on it. But again, thank you for reading this, and reviews are loved!


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